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oom: room 25 / later outside
After taking care of his morning chores and the conversation that came with it, Doc leads Katherine up to his room, box of donuts and two cups carefully held in his hands.
Once he's opened the door and they've stepped inside, the first thing she'll notice is that he's changed the layout of the room a bit, and his bed has been shoved up against the wall, his desk moved closer to the door. There's a new couch by the windows, with an end table that wasn't there before as well.
"Figured if I was gonna be livin' here I might as well make it less like a hotel room," he offers, by way of explanation, as he closes the door behind them with his foot, but doesn't bother to lock it.
There are books stacked on the desk, but not poetry or literature. History of Medieval England, for one. Several medical texts. There's an empty glass (and half empty bottle of Laphroaig) sitting on the desk as well. Scattered pages of notes. Half finished poems. Nothing but scratched sketches from a bored and frustrated writer's hand.
His bed is roughly made (sheets and blankets pulled up but not tucked in) and there are several other books on the side where another person would sleep. A hard bound selection of Keats is tucked in with a leather bound journal or two.
She'll see, tacked to the wall between the bed and desk, a piece of paper with the poem Jack quoted to him at a Happy Hour a few weeks ago, handwritten in black ink.
On the dresser, there are still the two folded paper cranes, one pink and one brown, but a third, a bright orange (like canned peaches) has joined them. The cask in the corner is covered with a towel, sword and bow and rifle leaning against the wall. There are coat hooks on the wall beside the door -- that black duster, as well as his tan one, and a woolen cloak, hooded and green, that is suitable for hiding among the trees and leaves of Sherwood hang on the pegs.
The footlocker at the end of the bed is covered in cloth, and that sword (not the practice blade, but a finer, sharper weapon) is resting on it, polishing cloth beside it.
Doc crosses the room to the couch and coffeetable, and sets the contents of his hands down on the surface before he leans over to shove one of the windows open, pulling the curtains over it to allow for the morning breeze.
"Sorry 'bout the mess," he offers, before he motions for her to sit while he pulls his coat off, the flannel jacket ending up on the end of the bed.
She'll also notice the end of his bed is missing something familiar.
(His gunbelt is nowhere to be seen.)
It's really not all that horrible, but it's more 'lived in' than she's seen it before.
Once he's opened the door and they've stepped inside, the first thing she'll notice is that he's changed the layout of the room a bit, and his bed has been shoved up against the wall, his desk moved closer to the door. There's a new couch by the windows, with an end table that wasn't there before as well.
"Figured if I was gonna be livin' here I might as well make it less like a hotel room," he offers, by way of explanation, as he closes the door behind them with his foot, but doesn't bother to lock it.
There are books stacked on the desk, but not poetry or literature. History of Medieval England, for one. Several medical texts. There's an empty glass (and half empty bottle of Laphroaig) sitting on the desk as well. Scattered pages of notes. Half finished poems. Nothing but scratched sketches from a bored and frustrated writer's hand.
His bed is roughly made (sheets and blankets pulled up but not tucked in) and there are several other books on the side where another person would sleep. A hard bound selection of Keats is tucked in with a leather bound journal or two.
She'll see, tacked to the wall between the bed and desk, a piece of paper with the poem Jack quoted to him at a Happy Hour a few weeks ago, handwritten in black ink.
On the dresser, there are still the two folded paper cranes, one pink and one brown, but a third, a bright orange (like canned peaches) has joined them. The cask in the corner is covered with a towel, sword and bow and rifle leaning against the wall. There are coat hooks on the wall beside the door -- that black duster, as well as his tan one, and a woolen cloak, hooded and green, that is suitable for hiding among the trees and leaves of Sherwood hang on the pegs.
The footlocker at the end of the bed is covered in cloth, and that sword (not the practice blade, but a finer, sharper weapon) is resting on it, polishing cloth beside it.
Doc crosses the room to the couch and coffeetable, and sets the contents of his hands down on the surface before he leans over to shove one of the windows open, pulling the curtains over it to allow for the morning breeze.
"Sorry 'bout the mess," he offers, before he motions for her to sit while he pulls his coat off, the flannel jacket ending up on the end of the bed.
She'll also notice the end of his bed is missing something familiar.
(His gunbelt is nowhere to be seen.)
It's really not all that horrible, but it's more 'lived in' than she's seen it before.
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"You ain't wanted anywhere, at the moment," she reminds him.
She hates the look in his eyes.
And she feels guilty, because she knows it's there at least in part due to her.
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That's because he's dead. Sort of.
"But my picture is still up in every Marshal's office from New Mexico to Missoura."
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She doesn't say it.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say there was the slightest hint of pride in your voice," she remarks, popping another piece of cantaloupe into her mouth.
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He shouldn't find it amusing. He really shouldn't. But he does, just a little, that glint in his eyes.
"I dare say you're right 'bout that."
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"Shouldn't be smug," she chides.
But her tone is light, and not at all threatening.
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"Ain't smug. Cross my heart. Just...glad that I'm finally gettin' the respect I deserve."
Of course now, he's 'dead'. That messes things up a bit.
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She cocks an eyebrow at him.
"How do you figure?"
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A shrug.
"You get tired of ridin' second hand. Regulators should've been mine after Richard got killed. I would've done things different. Respectable way."
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"Is there any respectable way of taking a man's life?" she asks.
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Instead, Doc leans back slightly in his chair and considers the question a moment, sipping at his coffee before he sets the mug down.
"We wouldn't have had to."
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"Good answer," she murmurs softly, nodding once.
He's won the respect of at least one person.
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He can see it in her eyes, and it makes him smile a little, before he nods and then sets about polishing off the rest of breakfast.
After several minutes, he speaks up again.
"Did y'want to see work with the bow or with the sword?"
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She is a proper lady, after all.
"How about both?" she asks, her eyes glinting.
Yes. Proper lady.
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"That I can do."
Doc finishes up a moment later, and sets his silverware aside as he drains the rest of his milk and coffee.
"I just need to run upstairs and grab what I need."
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After he leaves, she stands and prepares to collect the dishes. A waitrat approaches with a napkin on its tray.
'What have I told you? Don't do that.'
She blushes, abashed, and allows the waitrats to clean everything up as she pulls on her coat.
After a few minutes, a different rat approaches, this time with a styrofoam cup accompanying the new napkin.
'It will keep your hands warm. ;)'
Katherine picks up the rich smelling coffee with a chuckle. She isn't sure when Bar decided to mother her so, but she isn't necessarily complaining about it.
She'll be waiting by the back door, sipping cautiously at the hot liquid, when Doc returns.
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There is no jacket (but it's going to be warm enough once he gets started he won't need one) and he gives her a smile.
"Figure shoot first, it's the less tirin' of the two," he offers, grateful when she opens the door for him before they head outside.
It's only a short walk to the area that gets set up as a 'range'.
"What's Fall like in Green Lake?"
Idle conversation, while they travel.
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"The leaves around the schoolhouse start to change color, and there are bushes of Indian Grass and Tickseed coming up everywhere."
(Despite the off-putting name, Tickseed is a rather sweet looking yellow flower.)
"It gets cool around the lake, and the days are bright and clear and crisp, and you start to smell the wood stoves and fireplaces going again."
Her smile brightens, and she turns to look at him.
"I think the best part is when the leaves fall, and the children rake them up into piles around the schoolhouse. It's wonderful grading papers to the sound of their laughter coming in through the windows."
When she's not out there with them, of course.
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Doc smiles.
"It sounds beautiful," he admits. "I like the smell of woodsmoke," he adds. "Burnin' off leaf piles, haze hangin' low over the ground, the way the air bites when y'get up in the mornin'. So damn cold you think your lungs will freeze, but they don't."
When they reach the range, it's empty (it is still early, somewhat) and he hands the bow to her.
"Do you mind holding that for a second?"
(It's tall as he is, but still light, one smooth piece of English hickory, with a leather handgrip and notch for the arrow rest.)
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As tall as Doc? That makes it about seven inches taller than her, and she stands like someone bracing herself against a weight sure to make her topple.
Her brain is reduced to small sentences.
"That's... tall. How...? Tall."
Translation: BOW TALL.
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He will not laugh. He will not laugh. It wouldn't be proper.
Doc turns and reaches for the arm guard tucked into his back pocket, and he pulls the leather bracer over his left forearm, laces out, and tugs them tight.
She's still staring at the bow.
(He can't help the amused little chuckle that escapes.)
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Not that she had been staring, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, all this time. Because that would be ridiculous.
She glares at him from the corner of her eye. Though, to be fair, the gesture might be less threatening than desired, as her neck is still craned for the height of the bow.
"Do you see this thing? It's tall.... Don't laugh!"
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Doc tips his head back and then kneels, and extends a hand with a flourish.
"Milady," he says. "If you would be so kind as to wish this humble archer a bit of luck before he shoots?"
A beat, before he drops the accent and smirks.
"Cause I ain't that darn good."
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This time Doc is solely to blame.
(He's to blame for the pink creeping into her cheeks as well.)
Katherine is so not amused by all this.
(Just ignore the brief chuckle that escapes.)
"Luck?" she repeats, eyebrow arched. She's read books on medieval life, devoured tales on knights and rogues, and knows how to play the part.
She pulls a kerchief from her coat pocket, and presses it into his hand as a favor, failing at hiding that smirk as she bends close to him to whisper teasingly.
(She doesn't have to bend far.)
"Let's pray you don't misfire, good sir."
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"My gratitude."
Then he lifts the bow with one hand, sets his stance as he lifts an arrow from the quiver, and carefully notches it. His eyes study the target as he brings the bow up and draws.
Steady.
(He's had a lot of practice the last week, in Sherwood.)
He exhales, ever so slightly, and releases his fingers and the grip on the taut line, bowstring skimming against the leather bracer as the arrow flies free.
thwock
It strikes just a bit wide of the center.
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She claps respectfully: fingers of one hand tapping at the wrist of her other, as she's still holding onto that cup of coffee.
"That was marvelous!" she enthuses, shaking her head. "How long have you been practicing?"
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